by Colt, K. J.
Papa lifted a large leather bag that bulged with coin, clothes, and other necessities. With his other hand, he twisted his fingers around the brass ring that secured two iron keys. With a jingle, he brought the keys up in front of him in order to choose between them. I held my breath. The cart was packed. Mama was almost done in the nearby storeroom, and I was filled with anticipation of what Papa would do next.
I followed his every movement as he turned and pushed the largest key into the lock of the door and twisted. The sound of the moving cogs made the back of my neck tingle, as it spoke of forbidden escape. Papa tugged on the handle, and the barricade door swung inward, creaking as it moved. The aroma of exotic perfumes and incense rushed up to meet me, and I breathed in the delicious combinations of sweet, sour, and spice. The openness of the room made me feel uneasy, but my curiosity began to drown any nervousness. Below, the darkness called to me, tempting, wanting me to explore its secrets. I wanted to be free, but at the same time, the unknown scared me.
Mama emerged from the back room, white bonnet fastened and hands sliding down her snow-white tunic, trying to smooth the creases.
She threw her hands in the air. ‘Impossible fabric and colour. It’ll be spoiled in no time.’
‘You’re as beautiful as a snowflower, my dear,’ Papa said, grinning at her. He placed one of the door keys into Uncle Garrad’s hand.
Uncle Garrad put the key in the pocket of his pants, and then purposely caught my eye and winked at me.
Yes. We were going to visit his hill shack. It’d been a whole year since we went last. Mama and Papa always made me stay inside. Excitement replaced my previous sadness at their departure, and my heart jumped about like a newborn foal.
‘There’s something different about you in that colour,’ Mama said to Papa, inspecting his garments.
Papa fiddled with his collar. ‘Well, no one wears white anymore since the healers—‘
‘Yes, I know,’ she snapped, glaring at him. His eyes darted to me. I never knew why my parents didn’t like talking about the healers. Every time I asked Mrs. Moferbury, she’d change the subject.
‘You two best be off,’ said Uncle Garrad.
‘Take care of my girl,’ Mama said.
Uncle Garrad straightened as if honoured by the task; he might have looked chivalrous if his brown shirt hadn’t risen to reveal his bulging stomach.
I giggled and pointed. He pulled it down and then tickled me.
‘And you’ll administer her medicine once daily,’ she ordered.
‘Do I have to?’ I said, screwing up my face. The medicine looked like regurgitated marsh grass and tasted of sour mushrooms.
Long ago, I thought Uncle Garrad had caught my disease, because he sometimes broke out in weeping red sores and groaned when he walked. Once, his sores were so bad that Mother and Father had taken a long expedition to find a cure, but they had returned emptyhanded.
‘Make sure she bathes, and keep that door locked,’ Mama added.
‘I won’t leave, Mama. You can trust me,’ I said.
She kneeled before me and said, ‘Oh, my sweet Adenine, it’s not you I worry over, it’s…well…’ And there was no need to for her to say more. She worried I would spread the plague.
‘I won’t leave. I promise.’ I’d told a naughty lie, for soon Uncle Garrad and I would venture outside and see the hillsides and woodlands.
Mama leaned in to kiss my cheek, but I flinched back.
‘No. I should wash again. I may not be clean still.’
Mama sniffed my hair. ‘You smell only of soap! Say goodbye to your papa.’
I threw my arms around my father, inhaling his familiar scent of linseed oil and beeswax. ‘Goodbye, Papa. Bring me back a picture book for my lessons and a story from a bard.’
Picture books were my favourite, as Mrs. Moferbury had only taught me only the basics of reading and writing because of her infrequent visits. Sometimes Uncle Garrad helped me with my homework. Mama and Papa were far too busy with Mystoria to give me that kind of attention. Mama sometimes complained to Papa that they needed a maid. That conversation always ended the same.
‘Think of Adenine.’ Which meant, ‘She’ll infect people.’
I’d learned much about the world, along with many merchant tricks, from listening to my parents tell of their adventures. Through the picture books, I could see the world.
‘Have fun,’ Mama whispered, taking the second lantern off the shelf and leading the way downstairs.
On the third step, they turned and blew kisses at me. I waved at them until they disappeared around the corner.
Uncle Garrad finally shut the door. ‘They’ll be back before you know it. Now, what’ll we have for dinner, then, eh?’
‘Egg toast and spiced custard with dates and raisins,’ I said, and my stomach rumbled. The sadness at my parents’ departure surfaced again.
‘Cheer up,’ Uncle Garrad said as he pushed the key Papa had given him into the door’s lock and turned it. We went into the kitchen and I sat at the counter, resting my chin in my hands.
Uncle Garrad went to cooking supper. He cracked two eggs into a pewter bowl, mixed them with a wooden spoon, and then retrieved two satchels from the pantry. One contained raisins and the other dates. He took a skillet from a hook and sliced a small piece of butter to oil the pan. I loved to watch him cook, and Uncle Garrad knew many recipes. It interested me that he always prepared our meals as though handling a small bird with a broken wing—something delicate, something to love.
He tipped the eggy mixture over two pieces of bread, walked to the hearth, and slid the skillet onto an iron rack suspended above the fire. He poked at the embers and added more wood. Flames illuminated the dark corners of the room. The dining table was still dim, so I lit the wick of a beeswax candle. The light pulsed for a moment, casting long oval shapes across varnished wood.
‘Can we go to the hill shack tonight?’ I asked. The hill shack was a cosy cottage nestled in the forests at the base of the Borrelia Mountains.
He prodded the frying bread with a wooden spoon and then took the pan off the rack and placed it on a cooling base. ‘Not tonight.’ He took out two plates. ‘Your parents’ shop comes first, don’t it?’ He smiled and pinkish lips peeked from between his wiry beard hairs.
I pouted, but accepted his answer. He’d always been extra careful on the quarter-day trip to his hill shack. I took double doses of my medicine, and I only went outside in the evenings.
‘Stop pouting, littlun, or you’ll get no sugar cube after your medicine tomorrow.’
I screwed up my face. ‘No!’ I balled my fists and scrunched up my face.
‘You want a fight, do ya? Well I ain’t a fancy heart like your papa.’ He raised his hands and I punched one of them, laughing. ‘We’ll go end of this week. Got to harvest the rest of my blueberries before the weather turns too cold.’
I threw my arms into the air and cheered. ‘Hill shack, hill shack.’ Uncle Garrad had the juiciest, ripest berries in the lands. They’d be marvellous with cream and eggy toast.
‘Tomorrow I got business in the evenin’. Can I trust you to fend for yourself?’
‘You’re seeing that lady friend, aren’t you?’ I’d heard him and Papa having a discussion about it a few months ago. Papa had advised Uncle Garrad not to see the woman lest he spread his illness to her. In that way, I felt sorry for my uncle—we both had afflictions that stopped us being close to other people.
His eyes sparkled. ‘That’s none of your concern, now, is it?’ Suddenly, the joy on his face faded, and he became lost in some haunting thought.
I wished for the weather to stay fine, for if it rained too heavily the rivers would rise and block the entrance to my uncle’s lands.
‘Here we go,’ he said, transferring the egg-covered bread to our plates and placing them on the table.
‘Don’t forget to wash before you leave tomorrow,’ I warned him. ‘You might have bits of my sickness on you.’ I tucked in
to my food.
Uncle Garrad became quiet, and when I peered up at him, I saw his pity. His sadness. He didn’t like that I carried the plague, and neither did my parents, so I smiled and jested and never made a nuisance of myself. For only then could I be truly loveable.
CHAPTER TWO
THE NEW MORNING LIGHT BARELY made it through the triangular window of my cosy attic bedroom. I looked down upon the bustling market square, watching golden icicles—hanging from thatched roofs—melting in the morning sun’s heat. The fresh droplets landed on people’s heads, making them grumble and swipe at their hair.
I giggled.
The marketplace’s tables, stalls, and carts were overburdened by common items like vegetables, cheese, and meats. The smithy struck hard with her hammer and the bards played their cheery instruments.
Borrelia was a last major stop before South Senya ended and North Senya began. Once, on a rare occasion when Mama had mentioned the healers, she’d told me that many people had fled to Borrelia when the healers had taken control of Meligna, the great northern city.
One of those who had sought refuge from Meligna was Ms. Black Bonnet, so named for always wearing a black hat. Every day, she would visit the fish stall, the cloth stall, then the trinket-maker’s store, and finally, after buying nothing, would drag her feet to the doctor’s house. I knew it belonged to a doctor because the sick flocked there. Most coughed, others limped, and some arrived on stretchers. Some left on stretchers, too. People seemed to get sick a lot, but not me. Well, at least I never seemed to get what others got, such as fluid in the lungs, a dripping nose, or swollen eyes—sicknesses common to a snowy climate. Mama said that my blood wasn’t susceptible to the illnesses of others and that the trait was an inherited one. But that confused me because both Mama and Papa fell ill many times a year and seemed cautious of being around my uncle when his sickness flared with sores and a throaty cough.
I watched Mr. Fat Man, the vegetable seller, flirt with Ms. Big Chest, who seemed to like the attention. Some days, she ignored him or chased him off with a broom. Her moods were as fickle as the weather.
And then came my favourite part of the day, when the town crier, wearing a golden shawl, shouted the midday news. Borrelia’s happenings were fairly boring, so in my mind, I replaced the town crier’s mundane news with my own fantastical tales.
‘Hear ye! Hear ye! A witch flew into town today. She’ll brew you a nasty potion for a silver coin or two.’
A long time ago, I’d asked my papa to take me outside. I’d wanted to be like the other children playing in the streets.
‘Absolutely not,’ Father had said.
‘But I want to see the market, Papa.’
‘There’s something you need to know…’ That was the first time I’d learned about what brewed inside of me.
Tired of watching the world outside, I went downstairs and lit a small fire in the hearth, then checked the washbasin to see it held clean water. Uncle Garrad hadn’t washed, and I fretted that he might spread my disease.
I picked at my breakfast—a portion of bread and some honeyed drink—then began reading one of my favoured books about the animals of Bivinia. A few pages in, I became distracted by the barricade door and the fact he hadn’t washed before leaving. He’d be downstairs right now, bargaining with customers and exchanging coins. I walked over to the door and put my ear against it; the house seemed unusually quiet. There were no thumps, scrapes, or voices. I wanted to see if the door was locked, but couldn’t trust myself if I found it open.
Just thinking of infecting someone made me wash my hands. Not clean. I washed them again, then wiped down any surfaces I’d touched and resumed my reading. The day passed slowly. I tended to other chores, sweeping, dusting, and darning a torn apron. When the daylight passed and the living room darkened, I lit a lamp. My stomach rumbled, and I looked at the food Uncle Garrad had laid out on the kitchen bench.
The fire in the hearth had just taken hold when I heard a thump downstairs. There were several more thuds and the sound of things being knocked over. I spun around, afraid, watching to see who came through the door. My heart drummed, and I regretted my decision not to check the door lock. What if it was a thief?
Mrs. Moferbury had taught me all about the thieves of Juxon City, the capital of South Senya, a place she called Pilfers’ Paradise.
Hearing the scrape of a key in the lock, I relaxed. Uncle Garrad stumbled through the door, swaying under the influence of too much liquor.
‘’Ello there,’ he slurred, making an exaggerated waving gesture. ‘What’s my wittle princess cookin’ her favourite uncle this evening?’
I noticed a festering sore on his left hand and scanned him for more, troubled by the possibility that his illness might flare up and see him bedridden. Without Mama and Papa, I would have to care for him.
There were no more sores that I could see, but Uncle Garrad managed to catch my gaze as it fixated on his hand.
He put his arm behind his back. ‘Tsk tsk, it’s rude to stare.’ A hint of drool seeped out from the corner of his mouth. Clumsily, he yanked the key from the other side of the door lock, shut the door, and then relocked it. He staggered forward and collapsed into a lounging chair, then swung his legs up over the armrest and closed his eyes. His head drooped forward.
To send for a doctor would require me to go outside, which wasn’t allowed, but if my uncle’s condition worsened it would leave no other choice. Uncle Garrad had asked for food, and so I went to cooking to calm my racing thoughts and avoid waiting for the catastrophe of him drunkenly fixing his own dinner.
I dropped diced pork into the boiling water, then heated oil in a skillet. When his throat rumbled with snores, a weight lifted off my shoulders. Perhaps he would sleep through the night now.
Minutes later, though, he grunted awake and fixed bloodshot eyes on me. ‘You’re so lucky, aren’t you? Parents that love you. A whole future of life. And to finish off that mountain of luck, every man will want you. They won’t turn away in disgust like women do to me.’
Uncle Garrad rubbed his eyes and then put both hands out in front of him and spread his fingers. He pointed at the mark on his hand. ‘See this? It be a curse on my life! Loneliness. Rejection…’ He trailed off, his head slumping back this time, and the snores resumed.
The door key, which he’d been clutching, fell and clanked on the stone floor. Slowly, I stepped forward, crouched, and picked it up. It sat in my palm like a porcelain ornament, and I set it down in its proper place, on the table, right next to my sleeping uncle.
I turned away quickly, ignoring the desire to unlock the barricade door and go down into Mystoria.
The sizzling oil and boiling water brought my attention back to the cooked meat. I scooped up the meat, sprinkled herbs and flour on a wooden board, and rolled the meat into balls on the board. Then I fried them in oil.
Uncle Garrad was infectious when his sores flared, that’s what Mama had said. She once confined him to a bedroll in the storeroom for a whole month.
I’d lost my appetite, so I placed each edible herb ball on a cloth to save for later. Uncle Garrad would appreciate them in the morning anyway. There were apples in the pantry, so I took two, put them in my apron pocket—in case I got hungry later—and then fetched a quilt, which I spread over the snoring drunkard. That’s when I noticed the other two circles, raised and red.
Tomorrow there’d be more, and by the next day his entire body would be covered in them.
CHAPTER THREE
THE NEXT MORNING, RAIN PATTERED against my windowpane, and my room felt colder than usual. Remembering the night before, I threw back my covers, got out of bed, and ran downstairs.
Uncle Garrad’s chair was empty, the key had disappeared, and the barricade door sat wide open.
I heard a grunt, and on my parents’ bed were two large feet overhanging the end. Carefully, I crept to my uncle’s side and saw the key lying beside him. With shaking hands, I picked it up and tiptoed f
rom the room, heaved my body against the barricade door until the latch caught, and then locked it.
The water in the washbasin was filthy, so I dumped the contents into a bucket. I refilled the washbasin, added sage, lavender, rose petals, and almond flour, then took the soap off its dish and wiped the scratchy block over my fingers.
Not clean enough. I scraped my fingernails against the skin until the area swelled all raw. A quick wipe of the barricade door with a fresh cloth and the key was back in its rightful place. No harm done.
I added new kindling and branches to the hearth, dug a hole at the base—finding pulsing embers amidst the dark ash—then huffed and huffed until a leaf curled with flame, which then jumped to twigs and finally branches.
Smoke drifted upward.
The sores had spread to my uncle’s face. His feet looked cold, so I pulled the blanket over them, revealing part of his chest where more spots festered. I shook his arm gently, trying to rouse him. Beads of sweat clung to his frown lines, but when I touched my hand to his forehead, it was cool.
‘Uncle,’ I said.
His eyelids fluttered. ‘Water,’ he croaked. ‘Fetch me water.’
I brought him a cup and he slurped and cringed with every swallow. Exhausted by the action, he lay back down to rest. His beard stuck to his chest, so I tied it out the way with a piece of Mama’s lace.
‘Heed my instruction,’ he said. ‘Don’t be afraid, but I will worsen before the day is over.’
The idea that I was to nurse him back to health terrified me, and tears leaked from my eyes.
Over the day, the sores yellowed and burst. Bouts of fever brought pain and shaking. During his alert moments, he instructed me on how to address his symptoms.
Three days into his illness, it seemed the worst had passed. Scabs formed over the sores, and his forehead cooled. I disposed of any waste in containers and stowed them in the storeroom, but the smell of the bed had become putrid. I knew how Mama treasured her bed, which she had told me on many occasions contained special goose feathers from Bivinia.
